Falling Twilight (Ch. 1)
by Buick
Summary: Does the Scrapyard permit happiness within its gates?


Falling Twilight Author's Notes:   
This is the beginning of my oldest un-finished Gunnm fic. I've posted it here on the off chance that it might arouse some outside interest, which would then provoke me to continue working on it. If none is generated, no biggie. (But if you want to see more, there's only one way to get it. Feedback! My email: astillar@yahoo.com) Since this fic is unfinished, I ask that the incomplete fic not be removed in whole or part from this arena. Finally, Gunnm and all its associated concepts are the intellectual and commercial property of Yukito Kishiro. That said, I hope you don't regret the time spent reading this work. 

*****

    Cyan nearly tripped. The groceries in her bag shifted as she struggled to retain her balance, which she was able to keep. Once she got her feet under her once more, she looked back and saw that a corpse had caught her foot. In the late afternoon sun, the death mask wore an unpleasant grin. She frowned with repulsion and checked her shoe to see if anything had come off on it. _//I almost stepped on it. I can't believe I'm so scatter-brained. What's gotten into me? //_ The fact that she already knew the answer only served to stoke her anxiety. Cyan looked at the contents of her shopping bag. A few necessities, some fruit, an undersized chicken and a cushion for Jenon was all that it contained. She had gone shopping to take her mind off of her worries for awhile, but all that had happened was that the vendors had taken advantage of her distraction. Her purse was now too light and the bag not heavy enough. As she strode through the crowds, her hair trailed after her, black and wavy, the curls she had always hated for their refusal to straighten. Cyan was healthy and firm, with curves enough to guarantee her constant offers of money. She had no interest in that, and thankfully, her fortune was that she had never needed to consider it. Cyan already had a focal point of her life, the same which made her hurry one step, then delay the next, if only to heighten the anticipation. His name was Jenon. Today though, fearful anxiety slowed her step, the same anxiety which had first fostered her worries, which fed her anxiety, which increased her worries, on and on until it felt like something had to give. And it would happen today.   
    It wasn't long before Cyan reached her building. She smiled for the heavily tanned short man selling ices on the sidewalk. Once inside her flat, Cyan locked the door and set her bag on a chair near the entrance before moving to open the blinds on the opposite side of the room. Light spilled into the dark room. She paused at the window to look out at the silent movement of the city below. The wall of an opposing apartment complex blocked the view from the window almost entirely, but a sliver of the street could be seen to each side. Across the alley and above her floor was another window. Sometimes during the day she saw a small toddler looking out the window also, too young to be let outside while everyone went away to work. He cried often, pounding on the glass with his tiny, ineffectual fists. He wasn't at the window today. Cyan walked across the empty room to the phone. The red light on the message machine was not blinking. A mixture of relief and worry filled her sigh. She had hoped that Jenon would have finished by the time she had completed her shopping, and would have greeted her with good news. _//I hope that it's good news. Jenon really needs this. / But if it's bad news, it can wait. / Unless Jenon's staying away from home because the results were bad. / I hope that's not the case. He can act so strangely sometimes. //_ She did her hair up into a bun and tied it off with a ribbon. _//I hope he gets home soon, no matter what today's results are. / Good or bad, he'll be hungry, that's for sure. //_ With that, Cyan spilled out the contents of her shopping bag onto the counter and began preparing dinner.   
    "And then I told him that if he wanted his laundry back, he'd better quit hanging it in the hallway. Nearly strangled m'self the other night," rambled the iceman as he drained the water from his cart onto the street.   
    Cyan made sure to pay attention when he was looking in her direction, otherwise she kept an eye on the bridge down the street. The wastewater pushed along a small row of dust and trash before it as it followed the gutter. The vendor was wiping down the aluminum sides of the cart with the same syrup-laden rag he'd been using all day. An unseasonably cold wind pushed its way down the street, towards the setting sun. Cybers were oblivious to it while non-cybers were spurred onwards by its touch.   
    "Yep, the weather'll be changing soon," said the vendor as if reading her mind. He looked up from washing his hands in the tinted ice water. "Back to selling churros for me." Sliding on a pair of cracked leather gloves, he said goodbye and pedaled away.   
    She watched the man and his cart merge with the crowd, and turning to look the other way, was greeted with a pleasing sight. A figure in an overcoat more suited for winter than fall was making its way across the bridge. Immediately Cyan searched his face for any hint of his mood that might tell her how his day had gone, but wearing that felt hat of his, she couldn't make out his face. Then she turned her attention to the feet of those passing by, so as not to look like she had been waiting for him. She silently chastised herself for not bringing something to busy herself with. Her mother had always said to never let a man know you were waiting for him.   
    A few agonizing moments of restrained anticipation passed before Jenon reached the steps. In a smooth voice he said, "Hello Cyan."   
    She smiled and stood. "Howdy stranger," was her reply. Jenon mounted the steps and embraced her in a careful, measured manner. They went inside. Cyan went straight to the kitchen to remove the dinner from the micro-oven. As she set the table, she glanced out of the corner of her eye at Jenon, who was slowly moving across the room. Feeling that he wouldn't tell her today's results without urging, she spoke first. "I went shopping today. I didn't get very much, but I did get a cushion for your chair, so you won't have to worry about that anymore." She ignored the thought that it had been her idea to buy the cushion and paused to look at Jenon. He had turned on the radio and stood before it, listening, while he looked out the window. " . . . Dinner's ready."   
    He looked away and came over to the table.   
    "Would you like to take off your coat?"   
    Jenon looked down as if just noticing it, then carefully took it off, laying it over the back of the nearby sofa. Then he sat down at the table, his exposed limbs glinting dully under the fluorescent light. They were the characteristic drab green of the lower third league, festooned with many logos of businesses and sponsors, all scuffed or torn. Cyan set his plate and metal cup before him. He took up the flatware gingerly and began to eat.   
    Partway through the meal, she finally hazarded the question that had been on her mind all day, "How did your day go?"   
    Jenon looked up from his plate, chewing with his dark eyes fixed on her. His pause made Cyan's throat clench, although she held her attention on her plate. He swallowed and remained silent a moment longer. "Pretty good," he answered, nodding slowly as if to convince himself.   
    Cyan finished the small mental prayer she had been saying and resumed eating.   
    "The time trials were a bit close, so we're going to run them again tomorrow at the first run."   
    The food-laden fork paused on its way to her lips. "Oh," was all she could think of to say at that moment. The fork completed its trip. She had rehearsed what she would say for good or bad news, but she hadn't planned for this. Part of her was relieved that Jenon hadn't brought bad news home, but another part dreaded having to wait all over again tomorrow. _//I can't wait another day. //_ "Well . . . I'm sure you'll do good tomorrow."   
    Jenon nodded.   
    "How did the new kids do?"   
    Jenon shook his head in disapproval.   
    //_Is that what was bothering him?_ // Cyan wondered.   
    He twirled his fork in the rice with a small frown. "There were so many. I had to run with twenty-four other motorballers." His voice shed its monotone quality, a sign that this had bothered him. "It was very crowded. And most of the new motorballers only had barely enough to meet the requirements, just wheels and gloves. No cyber at all, hardly any armor. There's going to be a lot of red on the track with all those kids. I don't think too many of them will make it through the season."   
    "But isn't that how it always is? Especially at the beginning of the season?"   
    Jenon ran his hand bluntly through his short hair. "Yes, but . . . Efosa was timing today too, and he thought that this year's crop was especially soft. We had to go slow, just to keep from hurting anyone. Even the Algheri team played nice, which was a surprise. Since we had to go so slow, no one qualified. That's why we're going to do it again tomorrow." _  
    //I can't wait another day. //
_ "Oh. I can go watch you race."   
    "You're going?" Jenon asked almost before she had finished, his eyes indicative of his surprise.   
    "Tomorrow's Sunday and Linda won't need me, so I might as well." She shrugged, her dark hair falling over her shoulders. "I can watch these new motorballers and give you a few tips."   
    A small smile bent Jenon's lips. "Alright. But it'll be an official race too, not just a time trial. You know that means full weapons and tricks. It could get messy." He raised an eyebrow, expecting her to take this opportunity to bow out.   
    Cyan fixed him with a derisive smile. "I'm not a little girl. I've seen you play before."   
    Two scarred green spheres bobbed as he shrugged with a smile. "Okay." 

    The fan turned slowly, sending a weak breeze across the bed regularly. It was the time of year when the nights were actually pleasant, but it wasn't for the breeze alone that it ran every night. Jenon said that feeling the breeze on his face lulled him to sleep. Cyan lie awake, watching that fan turn back and forth in the dark, listening to the small hum it made. She was no longer worried about what might happen tomorrow; if Jenon had no reason to worry, then neither did she. That was one of the things that endeared him to her. How he was so calm and cautious, always taking everything in stride, no matter how bad their luck turned. Although nothing had truly tried them, his strength was reassuring. Cyan ran a finger along his shoulder. _//Cool and hard. That's Jenon all right. / No, not hard, but strong. Hard isn't necessarily strong. //_ For what must have been the millionth time, she wished they could sleep together in the same bed as other couples did. Not for the obvious reason. Well, not _only_ for that reason, but just to be together. Lying atop her twin mattress with Jenon sleeping on his thin mat on the floor beside it, Cyan sometimes felt that there might be something more than those few inches separating them. But the simple truth was that Jenon's body was hard on furniture, and even if it were not, the dangers of him rolling over on her during the night precluded any intimacy.   
    He had been somewhat down these past few weeks as the new Motorball season approached. Although she disliked watching Motorball, if she could help rid him of his gloom by being there to support him, she would. When they had first been dating, he had tried to explain to her why he played Motorball, but his reasons never made sense to her. Sometimes when she went down to the Arena she could see in the other motorballers' eyes why they danced with death and it frightened her. But she had never seen that look in Jenon's eyes. He didn't seem the type to be involved in Motorball. Soft-spoken, he was almost soft in his emotions also; giving no hint of appreciation until out of nowhere he would affirm his love, proving that he was constant and earnest in his affection. It had been awhile since he his last futile explanation. Cyan didn't understand, but she accepted it. 

    Although no clouds marred it, the noonday sky was a corrupted blue. Exhaust and noise rising from the pits below the track added to the pollution. Cyan and a dozen other people occupied a small raised platform around which the track made its circuit. Except for two assistant mechanics, the rest were sponsors of Motorball teams. The two mechanics made no effort to hide their displeasure at having the duty of explaining to the sponsor how their money was being spent rather than being in the pits working. On the far side of the track, hundreds of Motorball fans sat in the fenced stands. Although the race had yet to start, the noise coming from the crowd was already swelling in volume. Every now and then a gust pushed over the outside wall and rushed across the exposed platform, chilling Cyan. _//Goodness, it's getting cold early this year. //_ She pulled the collar of her windbreaker up and brushed her hair away from her face.   
    A hand offered a steaming cup of coffee. "Cold, huh?"   
    Taking the coffee, Cyan said, "Thank you."   
    The hand belonged to Mr. Panayitou, one of the sponsors of the team that Jenon belonged to. Cyan didn't drink the coffee; she had made that mistake only once before learning better. She simply held it and let the warmth seep into her hands. "You're Jenon's . . . companion, right?" he asked.   
    Cyan winced. "That's right, Mr. Pana . . . yitou."   
    "Call me Sanjaya, please," he said, taking a drink of his coffee.   
    Cyan found his contorted face adequate payment for the slight.   
    He shook his head and tossed the coffee out over the railing. "So much for that," he commented with a frown. "Did you hear about yesterday's confusion?"   
    Cyan nodded.   
    "I'm glad that it turned out that way. It just so happened that I was available today, and I thought I'd come watch the trials. I so seldom have a chance to actually see my boys in action," Mr. Panayitou said, looking in the direction of the pits. "Do you come often?"   
    "No sir. Like you, I was able to get away to come watch."   
    "Jenon is lucky to have a girl like you by his side." Cyan dismissed the possible innuendo. "I've never heard of a married motorballer, and few enough with constant companions. Do you find this sport interesting? I hear some women are drawn to the action."   
    "Speaking of which, Mr. Panayitou, I should get down to the pits to wish Jenon luck. If you'll excuse me . . ." He regarded her curiously as she departed. 

    Of course only motorballers and mechanics were allowed into the pit area, but the underground entrance was out of that shifty man's line of sight, which was why Cyan sought it out.   
    Seated before the main pit gate, Pawell began to rise from his stool before he recognized her and sat back down.   
    Reaching the bottom of the ramp, Cyan stopped. "Hi Pawell. How are you today?" she greeted.   
    Pawell turned on the stool to look at her clearly. A smooth-skinned depression marked where his right eye and cheekbone had once been. He inclined his head slightly. "Good morning, Ms. Muñoz. I'm doing quite right, thank you." His smile was a bit lopsided.   
    "How's it going inside?"   
    "There's a lot of excitement. There's a few boys who only got their cyber this week, and they're not looking too good, but all in all, a good lot. Especially with your man Jenon in there."   
    At the mention of his name a serious look came into her eyes as Cyan took a step closer to Pawell. "You've been here these past few weeks, right Pawell?"   
    He nodded.   
    "Have you noticed anything . . . different about Jenon or the team? Maybe the sponsor?"   
    A grease monkey ran past them to the gate and went inside. Pawell's eye followed him and then he said, "No . . . Everybody's been getting ready for First Run. Why? Is there something I should've noticed?"   
    "No . . . I guess not." She looked away towards nothing in particular.   
    "Well Ms. Muñoz, you know how everyone gets jittery and weird just before First Run. I'm sure if Jenon 's been acting funny, that that's all it is. Even a vet like him can get the butterflies."   
    Cyan smiled. "Yes. I suppose that's all it is." The voices coming from the entrance of the pit area grew louder along with the sounds of doors and gates opening. "Oh. I'd better get back with the others. Thank you for your time, Pawell."   
    "Always a pleasure Miss."   
    As she reached the top of the viewing platform, the last of the motorballers emerged from their subterranean garages. The large number of contestants spilling out into the open and their freshly polished bodies made Cyan think of ants. She looked for Jenon, but the crowd was too thick to allow her sight of him. Each took a place behind the starting line and buckled their anchor into the concrete. An over-excited voice came on over the speaker system, "Welcome to the first competition of the new Motorball racing season!" A ragged cheer went up at the ushering in of a new season. "Today we've got many new fighters out there on the strip, and they're just burning up to . . ." The voice raved on while the motorballers began revving their engines in expectation. One lunged against his tie-down repeatedly until three large regular cybers emerged from the pit area to remove him from the track. The audience booed at his removal. _//What kind of person needs drugs for their first race? //_ Intermittent flashes of sunlight glinted off of the razor plumage of the contestants. There were a few flails and club-like fists, but the majority of weapons were blades. Some of the motorballers did look sick; pasty-faced boys not too sure of their new mechanical bodies. She scanned the crowd for Jenon, but all of the dull green figures looked the same at this distance. 

    The air above the restless crowd of motorballers shimmered. Jets of heated exhaust surged from the posterior vents of each as their moods swung from fear to anticipation and back again. Jenon stopped above anchor eleven and knelt to fasten himself to it, his knees making a thin scratching sound against the hardtop as he did. The revving of engines created a continuous guttural thunder, but he hardly heard it. He paused in his crouch and pressed his scarred palm against the hardtop, fingers splayed out. It was at times like this that he wished he could still feel. When emotions ran so high that the air crackled, so strong that a resonance could be felt in every object, he was convinced that had he had flesh, he would be able to feel the energy. When he had first converted, his confused mind had experienced phantom sensations daily. Then weekly . . . then monthly . . . Now the memories only returned in rare dreams. All he could feel now was a dull resistance transmitting itself through his arm. Jenon remained in his crouch still, now looking at the handful of others that had not yet risen. Besides motorballers, the only other people nearly as religious were the Hunters. The fresh kids looked with curiosity upon the experienced motorballers on their knees. He did not know to who or what each prayed to; among motorballers, religion was respected but not discussed. For some, Motorball itself was their religion. Those few had the potential to be the greatest, to ascend to the upper leagues . . . or beyond. They were the greatest because they played with their entire heart. _//Hell, it's not even 'playing' for them. It's . . . worship. //_   
    He stood and while waiting for the signal, watched those around him with casual disinterest. _//Wait. Cyan! //_ He craned his neck to look for her. Through the slotted visor of his helmet he spotted her on the infield platform, standing some distance away from the cluster of sponsors. _//She came . . . / Why? She can't like it . . . There's no one here for her. / . . . Now is not the time to think about that. //_ Jenon looked away and returned to the dead calm that enveloped him before every race. The calm that was both infinite in its dimensions and a hairsbreadth from shattering. He could never decide which it was. He let energy flow into his actuators until the anchor cable drew snug. He was ready.   
    The novices were long past ready. Their limbs twitching, fists clenching, eyes never resting on one spot for long, the wait would probably prove to be the most difficult part of the race for them. Even those who had been kneeling were now ready and standing. Jenon's calm began to tatter as the mood of the novices pervaded his. The maniacal voice over the speakers finally died away and the crowd on the track ceased stirring to focus its attention on the tower of lights to the left of the track. Bulb by bulb, the red row lit up, followed by the yellow. A robotic arm flung the Motorball above their heads far out onto the track. The green row lit up and a staccato of gunfire sounded as twenty-five locks released their prisoners, followed half an instant later by the screams of accelerating tires.   
    The press of bodies surged forward, and met resistance. Those in the congested back yelled at those in the front, but they could only wait those first few seconds before they could truly start. At first it was all Jenon could do to keep his wheels under him in the jostling press. He moved at a low speed, waiting for the crowd to spread out enough to allow for maneuvering. He zoomed past a couple of motorballers who had let their impatience get the better of them. They were just now getting back on their wheels. Gaps of daylight appeared in the throng and grew. As the first turn approached, Jenon increased his speed and lowered his center of gravity as he did so. The pitch of the wind streaming past his helmet heightened until it became a shrill whistle. It was better to get away from the pack as soon as possible. Although it was traditional to use a minimum of force on First Run, he knew some of the more experienced motorballers would take this opportunity to cut down a few novices that showed too much promise. These same motorballers would consider it a bonus if a fellow veteran became entangled in the fray.   
    Jenon heard/felt the rumbling of his wheels on the hardtop reverberating inside his head, a personal thunder. The track ahead banked for the turn, and he leaned deeply in anticipation, his left knee skipping across the asphalt. Around the turn was the Stop Sign, a cruelly battered and darkly stained pillar in the middle of the track. Although the incline of the track could draw you in towards it, it was a simple obstacle to avoid if your full attention was on the track ahead. Apparently it hadn't been, for some. Pulling around the curve, Jenon spotted a motorballer beginning to fall as he glanced off the pillar. The culprit up ahead spared his victim a grin from behind a barred mask. The unlucky one twisted to the ground, forcing Jenon to push hard with his left foot. His wheels skidded brutally at the abrupt change in direction as he went from the low tuck to a hard right leap. His right foot failed to clear the torso of the fallen motorballer, knocking that leg out from under him. Falling and beginning to spin, Jenon crossed into the debris-covered margin of the track. Other competitors raced past. The wall rushed out towards him and collided with his shoulder, saving him from going down completely. The scream of fast-moving steel on stone sounded only for the instant it took him to regain his balance and push off.   
    Reentering the track proper, he recognized some backs. He had lost a second or two. It would be difficult to make them up. He glanced behind to where a handful of other fallen and scuffed motorballers hurried to catch up. _//I lost more than a second. //_ He pushed to full speed, but if the distance between him and the motorballers ahead lessened any, it was imperceptible. Speed was something he did not have much of; the cost of it became exorbitant the more you demanded. His body was indistinguishable from the generic ones the novices used, except for a few customizations. These arms were not his own, cannibalized from some failed motorballer, they sported a row of sharp serrated teeth on the inside forearms. It was said that the previous owner had used them for lethal headlocks, but they had ultimately proven themselves dangerous to the owner too when he threw them in front of his face to protect it in a crash. Certainly not to Jenon's taste, but they had been all that there was when he had signed on. The only modification Jenon had made was a hinged hook on the back of each hand. Each had a one-way hinge to allow his hands to bend back, but remained rigid when his hands moved forward. They were more tools than weapons and had saved him from many a crash.   
    He fast-forwarded along the track in his mind to search for an advantage that would allow him to regain the lost time. _//The Split's up ahead.//_ The Split was where the track forked into two roads as it turned to the right. A motorballer could gain speed on the sharp descent of the lower, but that route narrowed quickly, resulting in a fall or two with each lap. The high road was wide, but being higher than the surrounding arena walls, the crosswinds combined with that exceptionally smooth stretch of track only meant that the falls were more spectacular.   
    Jenon overpowered his leg actuators to make the climb without a loss of speed. He could hear someone gaining on him. _//Maybe . . .//_ He moved right of center of the track, leaving just enough room for a daredevil to pass him on the inside. The metal uprights made quick time as they whipped past. As he neared the crest of the rise, the faster motorballer caught up to him. He could tell it was a novice by how close he passed by. _//He's too intent on the potholes ahead to notice the ambush on the roadside.//_ It was easy enough to reach out with his hooked hand and snag onto the novice's hip. Jenon sped up at his expense. The novice whipped his helmeted head around to search for the cause of his deceleration and spotted Jenon's hand. With a yell, he twisted to bring his heavy fist down on Jenon's, or at least, thought to do so, for Jenon released his hold before the novice's fist hit his, and unbalanced, the novice's wheels twisted and were jerked out from under him. He toppled sideways. Jenon jumped, tucking his feet beneath him and his knees struck the rookie's back as he passed above, sending him downwards while boosting his leap. He tucked into a ball as he flew over the edge of the track, glancing off one of the uprights. The skidding sound behind him cut off abruptly. _//The kid must've fallen. //_ A knife of panic stabbed his mind when he looked down as he reached the weightless apogee. Hidden in the shadow of the higher route, the lower track was at least forty feet below his hyperaccelerating wheels. _//Bad idea? //_ The heads and backs of the other motorballers raced up towards him; he was falling too fast. _//Absorb the impa--//_

    Jenon fell like a hammer among the cluster of motorballers and crashed through the tightly packed throng without slowing. He failed to crouch fast enough and his wheels slammed into the track; a terrific report sounded as the shocks blew out on one of his legs. Startled yells erupted around him while he smashed through them; shrieks as some were forced off the track. It took Jenon all of an instant to realize he had survived and was now ahead of the pack. Every seal in his lower body felt as if it were blown and leaking. His right foot now jolted violently due to the blown shocks, but he could still feel a feedback coming from the actuators, which meant he was still in the race. Emboldened by his gamble paying off, he drew into a tuck and fed as much power into his legs as they could take. _//I can't keep the lead, but they won't get it easily.//_   
    With the resistance in his right leg slowing him, Jenon increased power to compensate until it was pushing the burnout limit. _//Leg feels . . . wrong. //_ The drag it created ate into his speed. The Narrows was rapidly approaching, a steep, V-shaped channel which offered great offensive possibilities at the expense of defense. He angled towards the side of the track in preparation for it.   
    Three fast motorballers caught up to him as he entered the Narrows. All three were from Team Algheri, an old, established team that used any tricks necessary to ensure its continued dominance. The one in the lead possessed the Motorball and sped ahead without so much as a glance for Jenon while the other two dropped back to match his speed, intent on punishing him for his stunt. He recognized both of them. The larger, stronger motorballer, nicknamed Guy-Jeen, relied on force to make up for what he lacked in talent. The other, known as Ricochet, was just the opposite, possessing little power but a multitude of tricks. Not a pair to be caught in the middle of. _//Where's my team? //_ He glanced behind him, the track was clear. _//No help there. //_ He began descending the incline, which forced speed into his lame foot. _//Can't attack. Not on this ground. Can't defend. Not against two. Can't outrun. Gotta wait. //_ The third teammate was already out of sight around the next turn. Jenon was nearing the trash-filled bottom of the Narrows but the Algheri motorballers had yet to make their move. Once he reached the bottom, he would be easy prey. _//Time's running out. C'mon . . .//_   
    Guy-Jeen braked and disappeared from Jenon's field of vision. Jenon kicked down and ducked as he crossed into the bottom of the cleft, sending up a fan of trash and fetid water. Guy-Jeen flew over his back, his tackle thwarted by the curtain of refuse. Jenon came out onto the opposite side and braking, kicked off into a flying right elbow to catch Guy-Jeen in the back before he could land. He then caught Guy-Jeen's right shoulder with his left hook to swing him around. Guy-Jeen began to yell. The collision had cut their speed to just over 100 kilometers per hour, giving Jenon only an instant to spot Ricochet, blade at the ready, hurtling towards him. Jenon put his weight into pulling Guy-Jeen around and cut the power to his wheels in anticipation of the impact. Guy-Jeen caught the brunt of Ricochet's blade; his yell was cut short. The flat of the blade only clipped Jenon's torso, but with him flying backwards, it stole away the last of his waning balance. Ricochet gave a grunt of disappointment as he flew past. Seeing his crash as imminent, Ricochet powered up and took off to catch his teammate. Jenon kicked off of Guy-Jeen, which accelerated his backward flight. He landed safely on his back just outside of the Narrows.   
    He skidded for a second before coming to a stop. Guy-Jeen somersaulted past, having lost all control and was stopped abruptly by the left wall. Jenon spat out the grit that had penetrated his helmet and rolled over. Bright patches of newly exposed steel on his back was the extent of the damage. The cloud of dust they had raised drifted past. Ricochet was already out of sight. Glancing back, Jenon saw the main pack approaching. He got up and took off in a sprint. 

    The roar of the crowd drowned out the official results being broadcast over the public address. Jenon cut power and coasted towards the pit area. His experience as a motorballer told him that his body should be strewn along the track and yet, he was still in one piece. He was thankful for this, though a little surprised. He looked up at the frenzied milling mob in the stands and it almost sounded as if the roar increased when he looked up. As his speed dropped, his attention returned to the heavy resistance in his right leg, which lagged behind. _//I must've burned out some actuators. And on top of the shocks . . . Tepa's gonna have my ass for this. //_ Other motorballers streamed past him on their way to the pit. One of the team's mechanics met him at the gate.   
    "Good going, Jenon," he said.   
    Jenon thought he heard sarcasm in his greeting, so he limited his reply to a nod.   
    Although the large fans set in the wall worked to circulate the air, the interior of the pit was hot and odorous. A small number of motorballers were already in the their garages, being ministered to by their respective pit crews. Each "garage" was a reclining slab situated underneath an arc lamp, surrounded by a net of power cords and air hoses hanging from the ceiling. Jenon held back at the entrance until the mechanic motioned him to enter. He was in no hurry to face Tepa's wrath. He rolled over to table eleven and climbed up onto the slab, then began undoing the buckles that held his helmet in place while a few grease monkeys gathered around him to shake their heads with unguarded disapproval at the sight of his right leg. In the harsh light of the arc lamp, Jenon was finally able to see the true extent of the damage. The calf armor plate was entirely missing and of the shocks, only a jagged rod remained, hanging loosely from his knee. The shrapnel of the explosion had neatly sliced through most of the actuators and aside from that paltry web, only two thin struts connected his foot to the rest of his leg. He paused in setting aside his helmet to marvel at the near-failure of his leg. Setting the helmet down, he touched the exposed mechanisms. His fingers twitched as they came in contact with it. "It's live," he said to himself, though the mechanics took this as a reminder of their duties and dropping the heavy looks, began readying for the repairs.   
    Tepa entered the pit. Smiling, the thick man in stained blue coveralls and heavy boots waved to someone up the ramp. Turning around, his eyes fell on Jenon and the smile faded. Tepa headed towards him. A nearby monkey had the gall to cut Jenon a sinister look. _//I shouldn't have taken my helmet off. I'll need all the protection I can get. //_   
    Tepa arrived at his garage and reached out with his solid arms to grab Jenon's shoulders and shake him. Although he knew he was heavier than Tepa, Jenon still felt like a rag doll in a dog's mouth. "What in the hell were you thinking out there, Jenon?!"   
    Some mechanics stopped what they were doing to watch the tongue-lashing.   
    Jenon didn't know which of the two Tepas to direct his answer to, so he split the difference and spoke to the air, "Um. I-I . . . didn't mean to--It was a mistake."   
    "A mistake?! That was lunacy, boy!"   
    His vision steadied and fastened on the correct Tepa. "I-I'm sorry. It won't happen again."   
    Tepa's eyebrows rose. _  
    //Wrong answer. //
_   
    "Oh, so it won't happen again, will it?! It's too late for talk like that boy! Before the race was even over, we got half a dozen new offers of sponsorship! And just wait till the highlight tape airs tonight!" He shook him again. "You're moving up in the world, boy!" Tepa slapped him on the back hard enough to have bruised a normal person.   
    By the time Jenon realized what Tepa had actually said, the man had already gone on to another table. A few nearby grease monkeys gave him a smile or thumbs-up. Jenon scrubbed a hand through his short sweat-damp hair, still a bit off balance from Tepa's congratulations. He suddenly remembered Cyan and began to get up to go share the news with her, but the mechanics restrained him and strapped him down to the table. He sighed and resigned himself to the torturous repairs. 

    Cyan could hardly contain herself. The last few stragglers had crossed the finish line, yet the crowd was still cheering. Mr. Panayitou was still looking through his pair of field glasses towards the finish line. It irritated her that he was the only one among them who had a pair. He hadn't lowered them long enough to tell her how Jenon had done. He just stood there, looking through the glasses, making little murmuring sounds. In the most polite tone she could muster, she asked again, "Mr. Panayitou? What about Jenon?"   
    "Hmm," was all that he said. Cyan was about to leave and find out for herself when he lowered the glasses. He still looked towards the finish line wearing that thin smile. "Hmm."   
    Cyan called upon nonexistent patience once more. "Mr. Panayitou? Jenon?"   
    He made as if just noticing her. "Oh! Cyan. Did you see Jenon? That was incredible!"   
    Cyan stilled hands that wanted to reach out and shake him till the answer fell out. "No. What happened?" The other sponsors, just as unaware, drew close enough to overhear without appearing interested.   
    He looked down at the field glasses he held. "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot. Well, your Jenon, he did great," he said with a large grin. The knot in Cyan's belly disappeared. "Phew! I can't believe a Netman didn't take him down during his launch off the Split!"   
    Cyan forgot herself and grabbed his arm. "That was Jenon?!" Mr. Panayitou nodded and Cyan felt her legs threaten to give way. _//I saw somebody jump off the Split, but Jenon . . .? //_ She brought a hand to her forehead. _//What is he doing to me? Oh, when I get my hands on him . . . / You'll hug and kiss the fool, right? / Maybe, but not until I give him a piece of my mind at least. //_   
    Mr. Panayitou was patting the hand resting on his arm.   
    She removed it. "I'm sorry Mr. Panayitou, but I need to speak to my boyfriend."   
    "Tell him 'Thank You' for me!" he yelled out after her. 

    A crowd was already pressing at the pit entrance, demanding but being refused admittance. The adrenaline-saturated mob gave Cyan pause as she reached its back end. Luckily, Pawell saw her and navigated through the crowd to meet her. He was chuckling.   
    Cyan nearly had to yell, "What's so funny?"   
    "You!" he shouted.   
    She cupped her ear. "Me?"   
    He nodded to his left and moved her away from the crowd so they could speak better. "Yeah. The question that you had asked earlier, about Jenon being alright, had me wondering about him, but after that performance of his, I'm convinced he's quite alright."   
    "You saw it too?"   
    He nodded.   
    "Oh my goodness . . . Was it really as bad as they said it was?"   
    "Bad?" He looked perplexed for a moment. "No ma'am. It wasn't bad, it was spectacular!" He spread his arms and bumped one of the mob. A partial cyber turned on him with a frown but catching Pawell's serious look, made all the more sinister with only one eye, promptly turned around again. Pawell lowered his arms and continued, "I'm pretty sure that was a first. In all of the time I've been here, I've never seen anyone intentionally go off the Split. Well, go off the Split and _survive_. Plus, he was able to go on and finish in fifth despite his leg! You should be proud of him. Even though there's no purse for fifth, I'll bet he won't be wanting for sponsors anytime soon."   
    Someone jostled her rather roughly. "Why are so many people down here?"   
    Pawell glared over her shoulder at the offender and then back to her with a shrug. "I guess Jenon struck a chord with the audience. They really love the suicidal stuff."   
    Cyan's eyes widened.   
    "No, no, no," Pawell said, catching her alarm. "Not like that. I meant, they see what they want to see, y'know. And Jenon gave it to them."   
    Cyan shook her head, not quite as convinced as Pawell.   
    "Aw, listen to me babble on as if we were Farm girlfriends. I'll bet you want to see Jenon."   
    "Could I?"   
    "Sure. Anything for Jenon's gal. You can wait in the office," he said, waving over a pair of burly cybers to help clear a path to the gate. The few who squeezed into their wake in an attempt to get in the pit were forcibly thrown back into the crowd.   
    It was noticeably warmer in the pit than it was outside, so much so that Cyan unzipped her windbreaker. "I'll send Jenon over here as soon as he can get away, Ms. Muñoz," Pawell said, gesturing towards a green vinyl couch set against the wall. Cyan sat and tried to make herself comfortable on the lumpy, slippery couch. 

    The cloak shook and steadied. It shook again, harder, and took longer to return to equilibrium. It shook for a third time and this time slowly dissipated. Cyan opened her eyes. "Hmm?"   
    "Good morning Sleeping Beauty," Jenon said. He stood over her in his worn black coat and removed his hand from her shoulder.   
    "Good Morning? Was I asleep that long?" she asked him as she sat up and looked around at the nearly empty garage. A handful of assistant mechanics talked quietly as they swept up. She began straightening her hair.   
    "No," Jenon answered with a smile. "You just took a little nap. I'm sorry it took so long."   
    "That's alright." Her demur tone sparked the thought that she was supposed to be angry with him. _//Later. //_   
    Jenon looked around the empty entryway and checked his watch. "Do you want to get dinner?" 

    They emerged from the pit into falling twilight. A cold wind blew without interference through the empty stands. The barren silence was eerie in comparison to the earlier fury of the fight. As they cut across the track, Cyan remembered the one time she had let Jenon show her what it felt like to be a motorballer. He had only gone up to thirty kilometers per hour, as compared to a possible two hundred, but it had still been terrifying. Not at all like a car, where there was at least something between you and the pavement. She looked at Jenon, who wore a small smile. _//Is he thinking about that too? //_ she wondered. _//I didn't scream_ that_ loud . . . //_   
    They passed through the arched entrance of the arena where a pair of cyber security guards sat under an arc lamp playing 'go'. Both nodded to Jenon as he passed. The street outside the arena was rather empty, only a few people and countless gambling stubs remained. With a small smile and hands tucked behind his back, Jenon "walked" besides her on the sidewalk, moving along smoothly on his wheels.   
    "Well aren't we smug tonight?"   
    His smile grew at being found out. He set the brakes and resumed normal walking. He stuck his hands into the pockets of his coat and flapped it open and close as he spoke, "Yeah, I suppose I am." He inclined his head. "But there's nothing wrong with feeling proud after you've done something well, is there?"   
    Cyan arched an eyebrow at him. "Oh. You did something _well_?" She looked away. "Hm. I don't seem to recall what that might have been."   
    The smile disappeared from Jenon's lips and he sighed. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, Cyan," he said in an apologetic tone.   
    She began nodding, finally hearing the apology due to her.   
    "I shouldn't have done that. It was stupid, it was dangerous, it won't happen again," he said, as if by rote. His tone changed. "But . . . I _did_ warn you that you might not like what you would see. Just so we know that it's not only me who's guilty." Her heated glare helped him decide to change the subject. "So where do you want to eat?" 

    A pair of softly hissing gas lanterns offered similarly soft illumination. A piece of meat leapt from the pair of chopsticks just short of Jenon's mouth. He exhaled slowly and set the sticks aside. An embarrassing amount of food had escaped enroute to his mouth. Cyan was doing much better, sipping from her bowl of soup without spilling. He considered eating with his hands.   
    "Cyan?"   
    She looked up.   
    Jenon gestured futilely at the chopsticks.   
    Cyan made no effort to hide her amusement as called out to the cook, who walked over to the counter while wiping his hands clean on a dishcloth. She spoke to him while making gestures at Jenon. _//I bet she could say it all the same without the embarrassing movements. / I'm a Motorballer, yet I can't even feed myself. //_ The cook left and returned with a set of flatware. Jenon smiled in thanks, but the cook looked unreasonably displeased. _//Probably because of the counter. //_ To make peace, he cleaned it by brushing the food off onto the sidewalk. The cook's eyes widened, and then he stomped off back to the kitchen. Puzzled, Jenon looked to Cyan for an explanation. All she offered was a disapproving look. Thoroughly confused, Jenon turned his attention to his dinner and kept it there.   
    Then Cyan spoke. "Do you . . . do . . . stuff like that normally? When I'm not there?"   
    It took Jenon only a moment to figure out what she was speaking about, but he paused, unsure of whether she was still angry about it. _//But she brought it up. It must be safe to talk about by now. //_ Still, his mouth opened and closed a few times before he could say, "No. No, I . . . don't really know why I did that today." He rubbed the handle of the fork through his hair absentmindedly. "Maybe it was because you _were_ there? Maybe . . .?" He shrugged. "I don't know. It just happened. You can't really plan stuff out there."   
    "What did Tepa have to say about it?"   
    "Oh, he was . . . exuberant," he said with a grin. _  
    //He sure is smiling a lot. I wonder if it's about the race. //
_   
    "But you . . . you didn't cheer for me today, did you?"   
    "Hm?"   
    "Did you cheer?"   
    "Well, no," she answered cautiously. "I was too worried to do that, remember?"   
    "Hmph." He thought, then laughed softly. "Thanks. I'm happy to hear that."   
    "Jenon?"   
    "No, I mean, you didn't cheer for me. That's special. When I was crossing the finish line today, for a moment, I thought-well, I believed the people in the stands were cheering for me. Just for a moment." Jenon was working out his thoughts as he spoke. "They identified with me, a racer of the track. Their attention was on me. All of them saw me just then and I was just thinking how for a long part of my life, I kept myself invisible. I did what was needed; I got by. I wouldn't look in the mirror for days at a time. I didn't exist to anyone, including myself," He rolled the bowl of soup between his palms and his voice grew quieter. "Then I met someone who noticed me, who saw something of merit when they looked at me. I was uncomfortable at first. That person made me . . . consider myself. They caused me to define myself and after awhile, to find value in my being. It was truly a gift that you gave me Cyan. Heh. And it only makes what we have seem more special when I think of how for one fleeting, superficial moment, those strangers might have valued me too."   
    Cyan looked at him with wide eyes, her food forgotten. She was speechless.   
    "That's why I'm glad you didn't cheer for me today. Because . . . you cheer for me everyday. Except quietly, y'know." Suddenly Jenon felt as awkward as his words sounded. "Um, so, thanks for coming anyways. I appreciate it," he finished hurriedly.   
     "Oh Jenon," was all Cyan said before leaning over to hug him. She planted a kiss on his cheek. "I love you too."   
    "Huh?"


End file.
